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WHÁT race is it which a mán runs
Only once, and, as he rúns, grows
Stiffer, stiffer, every moment,
Yét runs, every moment, faster;

Faster, faster, every moment,
Every moment, stiffer, stiffer,
Ånd the race wins never till he
Hásn't a leg or foot to stand on?

RosaMOND, May 9, 1859.

I FOLLOW not the rhymer's trade;

To please, I have no zest;
My verse is by mere instinct made,

Like bée's cell or bird's nest.

To please himself, Correggio drew;

To please myself, I write;
Applaud or not, as ye think fit,

My verse is my delight.

ROSAMOND, Sept. 30, 1859,

EPITAPH FOR ANACREON.

God's providence in every thing is clear:
Choked by a raisin lies Anacreon here.
To dry the grape and eat, is an abuse;
Squeeze, strain, ferment, and drink the heavenly juice.

ROSAMOND, April 28, 1859.

LOYAL and full of confidence in princes,
Saint Patrick's Dean to Prince Posterity
His helpless, orphan pages recommended;
And thankless, * as became a royal prince,
The prince received, and as his due, the homage,
And left the orphans for themselves to shift.

Less loyal, I, and of small faith in princes
And warned by the example, recommend,
After my own and daughter's death, my verses
To the sure patronage of moths and worms,
Keen connoisseurs of literary merit
And never yét known to ignore, disdainful,
The works even of the meanest among authors.
ROSAMOND, Febr. 15, 1860.

* Dublin, which has a statue of Moore, has none of Swift.

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD.

“How canst thou doubt that Time 's my sire ?"

Said Truth to me, one day,
As, arm in arm, with her I walked,

Far from the public way.

"I do not doubt,” said I, "for Time

Is Falsehood's sire, and she To Truth is so exceeding like,

Truth's sister she must be."

“For shame!" said Truth, “to taunt me so;"

And slipped her arm from mine; “The fault is not in me, but in

Those purblind eyes of thine,

“That do not, or that cannot, see

The difference between Truth's simple, unaffected air,

And Falsehood's studied mien."

So said, she turned, and left me there,

And I went on alone,
Until, methought, I heard again

Her voice's silver tone.

Rejoiced, I turned about, and, lo!

Truth's radiant form was there,
Her winning smile, and open front,

And unembarrassed air. -

“Welcome, sweet maid! we 're friends again,

Never to quarrel more.”
Agreed," said she, "give me thy hand

As good friends as before.

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“Where hast thou been? This whole, long year.

I have sought thee up and down,
Early and late, at home, abroad,

In country and in town.”

Full well I knew 't could not be Truth

Who held so wild discourse,
So with a frown and stern "Begone!"

Shook Falsehood off by force;

And onward walked, with Nature's face

And mine own thoughts content, And none to tell, or true or false,

Which way it was I went. ROSAMOND, RATHGAR ROAD, DUBLIN, Sept. 27, 1859.

PHILOSOPHY'S LABOUR LOST.

"I don't mean to disturb the thorns and weeds,
Only to sow the fallow with good seeds.”
Entering the field I said, and scattered wide,
In plenteous showers, the grain on every side.
The thorns and weeds outgrew and choked the grain;
I lost my labour, and, too late, saw plain,
Where error, vice, and prejudice abound,
In vain Philosophy would sow the ground.
ROSAMOND, March 16, 1860.

“Glaubt mir, es ist kein Mährchen, die Quelle der Jugend, sie rinnet Wirklich und immer. Ihr fragt, wo? In der dichtenden Kunst."

SCHILLER

ETERNAL youth cannot be and was never,
In spite of all thou say’st, beloved Schiller!
Nay, even thine own sweet Muse's cheek already
Shows wrinkles, and her golden locks turn gray;
Live on, indeed, she shall and must, for ever,

But men even now begin to call her, Sibyl.
RoSAMOND, March 14, 1860.

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